


Lost and Found

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Finder (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, John believes in Sherlock Holmes, John is a BAMF, Post Reichenbach, Post Series 2, heat sucks, pre series 3, walter is always up to a challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's 'death', John isn't quite convinced that Sherlock's dead. Which means he's in hiding, or something similar. And who better to find him than Walter Sherman? Of course, not all things are meant to be found.  </p><p>(Knowledge of The Finder is not necessary for reading, but is helpful.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John wasn't fond of the heat.

And Florida in the summer... well it was hot, to say the least.

And it was sticky hot, not dry hot, which was a different beast entirely, and one he'd grown more used to.

Which left him feeling less than presentable by the time he arrived at The Ends of the Earth.

Cabs, or taxis, as they were more often called in America, John reminded himself, didn't seem fond of going there, one of them citing some sort of place where cars break down.

And he certainly wasn't going to drive himself, not with that other side of the road nonsense.

It took extra convincing, and more of his American 'dollars' to finally convince someone to take him, where he was deposited with his duffel bag and backpack, staring at the building.

It didn't look overly impressive.

But from what he'd heard, and he'd heard quite a bit, between some of his old army buddies and the internet research he'd been prompted to do, the man who could be found there was very impressive indeed.

 

He hiked his bag over his shoulder and headed in.

 

A man was sitting on a stool at the counter, his feet perched on the counter, reading a magazine. Upside down.

That had to be him.

 

“Walter Sherman?” John asked, extending a hand for him to shake, which the man only looked down at and ignored. “I spoke to Mr Knox about coming. I'm John Watson.”

He retracted his hand when it became obvious the man wasn't going to shake it.

“You talked to Leo?” he asked, with more than a hint of suspicion.

“Yes, Walter,” a voice boomed, and John turned to see the man he'd been speaking with on the phone.

He wasn't what John had expected, although he hadn't been entirely sure what to expect. The man was built like a.... well, John wasn't sure. Something large. Like a house.

Leo shook John's hand.

“I told you about him. That he'd be coming to visit, and that he had a case for you.” Leo looked at Walter purposefully.

“Mm... nope, don't remember.”

“Walter, this is the man who wants you to find his friend. The famous detective who supposedly died.”

Walter looked up. “Oh, that John Watson. Leo, why didn't you say so?” he scolded gently.

He jumped up and shook John's hand enthusiastically.

“I've actually done a bunch of research about this topic. Leo says that I don't care about current events, but that's not true. Just not the boring ones.”

“Walter, natural disasters are not boring. Many lives are lost. It is a great sorrow,” Leo informed him.

Walter seemed to not hear, or rather ignore Leo.

“So when I heard that Sherlock Holmes, renowned consulting detective, had killed himself, I was interested.” Walter threw himself back on the stool, but his feet remained on the ground for the time being.

John tensed. “He didn't kill himself,” he informed Walter. “He was forced to jump off that building, and besides, he's not dead. I want you to find him.”

Walter examined John for a minute. “Okay.”

John stared at him in disbelief. “That's it, you're just going to take the case? You're not going to call me mad, or tell me I'm imagining things, that Sherlock is indeed dead, and that I should just move on with my life and get over him?”

Walter's reply was simple. “No.”

John didn't know what to say to that.

“I think you'll find that Walter can be very open minded,” Leo offered.

“So much that Isabel thinks my brains may fall out,” Walter grinned.

This was an awful lot to take in. “Sorry, who's Isabel?”

“Girlfriend,” Walter said, at the same time as a female voice from behind John said “Friend”.

He turned to see the woman who must have been Isabel.

“Isabel Zambada. I'm a US marshal, and one of Walter's _friends_.” She emphasized the last word.

“I have paperwork that says you're not,” Walter sang.

She glared at him. “Do I need to use my gun?”

When Walter shook his head, she turned back to John.

“And who might you be?”

“John Watson,” he replied, relieved that she actually shook his hand when he offered it.

“You're not from around here John Watson,” she commented.

He shook his head. “No, I'm from London. I came to talk to Walter about a case.”

“Which he's taken,” Leo added.

Isabel seemed to scan John. “A case? What sort of case?”

“The detective that killed himself. You know, the one who jumped off the building and...” Walter trailed off, choosing to finish the sentence with a hand motion and sound effects. “Splat.”

“Walter,” Isabel hissed at the same time as Leo rumbled his name.

“You are talking about this man's best friend. Be respectful. Are you alright Mr Watson?”

John shifted. “Erm, yeah. And you can call me John. And I'm a doctor, so... never mind.”

“Doctor John Watson,” Leo said, smiling broadly. “Now that has a nice sound to it.”

Isabel took a seat on one of the stools on the other side of Walter. She smiled at him.

The shoulder strap of his duffel bag dug into John's collar bone uncomfortably, and he shifted it.

“Are you tired John?” Leo asked, noting this. “It's still early here, but with the time zones.... I've got an extra trailer you can camp out in.”

“That would be lovely,” John agreed, realizing just how exhausted he was. It had been a long day.

Leo took the duffel bag from John's shoulder, leaving no room for argument, and led him back out of the bar, down the steps, and past one trailer before stopping at another.

“Who else lives here?” he asked, counting four trailers, including the one Leo was currently unlocking for him.

“Willa, Walter, and I,” Leo told him, swinging open the door. “It's small, but has everything you'll need. Do you want something to eat?”

John's stomach growled in response. “Yes,” he said, throwing his backpack down next to his duffel bag, and following Leo back into The Ends of the Earth.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dinner was a pasta dish that Walter claimed to have made, but the young girl who John soon found out was Willa, only rolled her eyes at the suggestion.

“Is he not a good cook?” John asked her, shoving another forkful into his mouth. Walter and Leo weren't listening, off at the other end of the bar debating if honey badgers or lions would do better in a fight. Walter was arguing for the honey badgers in between shovelling spoonfuls of pasta into his mouth. Isabel was watching them with mild interest.

“It's not that, cause he's actually not bad, but I know for a fact he spent the entire afternoon in the hammock thinking.” She rolled her eyes. “Leo made this.”

John nodded, swallowing the mouthful. “But he's letting Walter take the credit?”

“Yup. That's how Leo rolls. He's always looking out for Walter. Says that Walter saved him, so he'll spend the rest of his life repaying him. Except he throws in some quote by some dead person.”

John grinned. He could very well imagine that.

 

John stumbled into his trailer around 8:30, which he realized was way after midnight on London time, and fell asleep without changing. He woke up at 9:30 am London time, which was unfortunately 4:30 am in Florida. There was no chance of him going back to sleep.

 

He decided to go for a walk before everyone woke up. He didn't have much else to do.

However, when he stepped out of his trailer, into the mostly dark Florida morning, he could hear something. John wondered if it was smart to do so as he wandered towards the source.

Instead of some deadly Floridian animal (John wasn't even sure what that would be, an alligator or crocodile perhaps, whatever the difference was) he found Walter. Course, John still wasn't sure of Walter's status as a deadly animal, considering how many tours he'd done, but he'd rather a person than some sort of strange reptile.

 

“Walter?” John asked, frowning slightly as he peered through the dark. “What are you doing up?”

“What are you doing up?” he replied, ignoring John in favour of the elaborate setup on the patio.

“It's 9:30 in London time, I couldn't sleep. What's your excuse? ...Is that a model of Bart's?”

Looking closer, John could see the ambulance bay, the roof with the mortuary sign, the rubbish truck, and a number of figures.

“Yup,” Walter replied, positioning Captain America's legs so he'd stand up, and placed him behind the tissue box that was the ambulance bay.

“What are you doing?”

“Finding stuff. It's pretty technical, so you might not understand it.”

“Erm... right.”

He stood by and watched as Walter organized the scene that John had played over in his head so many times. Sherlock up on the roof (represented by an Iron Man figure, John figured it was an American thing, superheroes and such), a crate filled with socks for the rubbish truck, chalk outlines on the patio stones to mark the paving slabs, and string everywhere marking sight lines.

It was quite elaborate, but John didn't see what the point was. Could this man find a way for Sherlock to have survived simply by looking at a model?

“Is this even to scale?” John asked skeptically.

“It is in my head,” Walter grinned.

John frowned. That didn't even make sense. Of course, he wasn't going to say that to Walter, who may have been mad. Of course, Sherlock was mad as well, but that didn't stop him from being a genius.

 

He pulled up a patio chair and sat next to Walter.

When he'd finished setting up the scene, he sat back on his heels for a moment.

 

“I count twelve scenarios that could have happened up on the roof.”

“Twelve? That's quite a few-”

“Well, not all of them have... ideal outcomes. Or even survival.”

“Oh.”

Walter straightened up. “I quite like scenario seven. Bungee cord!”

He pulled an elastic band out from somewhere and looped it around Iron Man's waist.

“I think I would have seen that,” John pointed out.

Walter only waved a hand at him and continued.

John sighed and sat back.

 

He cringed at scenario four, which was Batman like wings hidden under his coat, and winced at number six, which was an attempt to leap into the rubbish truck. Of course, attempt meant only that, as the angle was too steep, and he couldn't make it.

Perhaps he winced more at the sound effects and props that Walter used than the situation itself. There was a liberal amount of red sauce involved.

 

But the time the sun rose, hours later, Walter had been through all but one of the scenarios. John hadn't been convinced by any of them, even the ones that seemed possible, like the martial arts moves.

 

“I saved the best for last,” Walter told him, perhaps sensing that John was growing despondent.

He pulled out more supplies, and repositioned his characters.

“Is that... a water wing?” John asked, frowning at it.

“Technically, yes, but right now it's an air mattress,” he replied, placing it at the base of the garden planter/hospital building.

“You think Sherlock jumped onto a giant inflatable air mattress, and I just completely missed it?”

“Yup.”

“Course. Why didn't I think of that,” John muttered. _Because you're an idiot,_ Sherlock whispered at him. But Sherlock wasn't there.

John focused back on Walter, who demonstrated with the string lines.

“Because you couldn't see it,” he pointed out.

John frowned. “Right, because this thing's not to scale,” he said, looking pointedly at Captain America's head, well above the tissue box.

“In my head it is.”

“Right,” John replied wearily, already exhausted, despite a glance to his watch telling him it was barely 9am.

 

He watched the last scenario with mild interest, not wanting to get his hopes up in case it was like the past eleven of them. This one was relatively simple. Iron Man fell onto the water wing, Captain America was knocked down by The Flash before he could see the water wing, and a group of superheroes came out and removed the water wing before Captain America got up again.

“Then if Sherlock was on the mattress, who did I see?” John pointed out.

Walter demonstrated with a suit of armour that looked remarkably similar to Iron Man.

“Then, while you were knocked down...” he switched the suit of armour out for the real Iron Man.

“Ta da!”

John shrugged. “It's the best so far. But that's all of them, isn't it?”

Walter cocked his head at him. “Is that all you have to say?”

John was bewildered. “What did you want me to say?”

Walter stared at him for a moment before getting to his feet and shrugging. “Dunno. Let's go see if Leo made breakfast.”

John watched him go, then wearily got to his feet, replaced the Captain America figure behind the ambulance bay, but not having the heart to put Iron Man back up on the ledge.

 

Apparently Leo had already been up for several hours, and had roped Willa into helping make breakfast, which consisted of waffles with fruit sauce, scrambled eggs, and an American classic, bacon. John quite enjoyed it despite himself. And of course, there was no tea, which was a shock to his system, but this was America, and he wasn't sure what they drank for breakfast.

Liquid freedom, perhaps.


	3. Chapter 3

The majority of the day consisted of Walter grilling John for details about their lives. Excruciating details. Painstakingly exact and accurate details about things that John couldn't even remember happening in his life, and he wondered how this strange man had found out about them.

Leo sat in, taking notes, and Willa had left around noon for a beach party, which Leo had given her a warning glance about.

 

It was around the third time of Walter going over the kidnapping case that Leo suggested they take a break for dinner.

John was immensely thankful.

 

Dinner was fish, which Walter claimed he caught himself.

Willa only shook her head and rolled her eyes over his shoulder, and John couldn't help but smile.

The fish was joined by vegetables and roasted potatoes. John had to admit that Leo was a good cook, and he missed home cooked meals. Mrs Hudson wasn't his housekeeper, and most certainly wasn't his mother, so she didn't cook for him very often. Only on the worst days, when she'd call up and say that oh dear, she made too much, and needed help eating it.

 

Dessert was ice cream, which was enjoyed in the shade just outside the bar. The sun was close to setting, but it was still far too hot for John's liking, and they went inside to finish the rest of Walter's interrogation. If John was going to be grilled, he was at least going to be comfortable doing it.

 

After only another hour of going over cases, Walter moved on to personal things.

He asked about Sherlock's girlfriends (“Nope.”) and boyfriends (“Nope.”) and friends (“He said only me.”).

“That can't be true,” Walter commented. “I mean, sure he didn't have tons of friends, but there must have been some other people who he liked, or at least tolerated.”

John shrugged. “Yeah. Lestrade and Molly, Mrs Hudson of course, and I suppose his brother.” John frowned. “Actually I'm not sure about his brother. Their relationship is... interesting.”

Walter glanced over to Leo to ensure he was taking notes, which he was.

John wondered again how that relationship had developed, but realized people probably thought the same about him and Sherlock.

 

Walter moved onto analyzing Sherlock's mental state.

“He wasn't a psychopath,” John told him. “People called him that, but he wasn't.”

“What was he?” Walter asked. John suspected Walter only wanted to hear what he had to say, rather than what Sherlock told people, which he probably already knew.

“He claimed he was a high functioning sociopath, which isn't even a real thing. And even if it was, that's not Sherlock. He's not a sociopath, or a psychopath.”

“What is he then?” Walter asked.

John shrugged. “It's not for me to say, although I had my suspicions.”

“Right,” Walter said, looking pointedly at Leo to make a note. “Could he have been depressed? I mean, people get depressed. Some of them jump off buildings. And there are also people who lie. Surely there has to be some section of crossover between them. Maybe it was Sherlock.”

John shook his head. “Nope. He wasn't depressed, and he certainly wasn't a liar. I still don't understand why he told me that, but you can't fake being brilliant for that long.”

Walter shrugged. “If anyone could, it would be Sherlock Holmes. But then that's the thing, if he was only pretending to be clever, how could he have been clever enough to pretend? Which means it wasn't pretend. But then what was the truth? Which goes back to the whole depression thing.”

Suddenly exhausted from his dynamic speech, complete with hand motions, Walter slumped back into his arm chair.

“Maybe he did just kill himself,” he noted glumly.

“He didn't!” John bellowed, standing up and shouting, the table pushed back from his chair. “He didn't,” he repeated, more quietly, but just as insistently.

“Sherlock Holmes was not suicidal. He did not kill himself. I'd lived with the man for too long to not notice something like that. I know what depression looks like, I know what it feels like, and believe me when I say Sherlock was not depressed. Not when I was living with him. So you think what you want about Moriarty, or his survival, or what the papers say, or even about him lying, but don't you ever think that Sherlock Holmes actually committed suicide. Because he didn't,” he snapped.

John straightened up, flexing his fist at his side.

“I'll be off for the night then,” he said, turning to leave without waiting for a response.

 

When he was out of the bar, Leo turned to Walter.

“Walter,” he scolded. “That was thoughtless of you.”

“I needed to know what he felt. The truth. Not the truth that he told everyone, or even the one that he tried to tell himself, but the actual truth. And the only way it was coming out was accidentally. So I made him angry,” Walter stated, matter of fact.

Leo shook his head and sighed. “I'm surprised you're not shot more often.”

Walter frowned. “You don't mean that. Right?” Leo got up from the table. “Right Leo?” he called after him, but there was no response.

Walter pouted for a minute before bounding off to the patio to recreate the scenarios again.


	4. Chapter 4

John emerged in the morning slightly ashamed of his outburst the previous evening.

He told Leo and Walter so much over breakfast, which was pancakes.

“I'm sorry about the... yelling,” he told them. “Last night I got a bit upset.”

“That's understandable,” Leo told him. “Besides, Walter was trying to get you worked up on purpose.”

John glanced at Walter, who grinned and flashed him a thumbs up.

Confused, John just looked back to Leo. “...Right.” He rubbed his face. “I'm starting to think this was a foolish idea, to come out here and to try to convince someone else to help me find him...” he trailed off. “I think it would be best if I just went back to London,” he said finally. “I'm sorry for bothering you with all this.”

Leo examined him. “Are you sure?”

John shrugged. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Sherlock is dead, and there's nothing that I or anyone else can do to find him because he really is dead.”

“I don't stop,” Walter said seriously, mouth full of pancake. “Leo musta told you. I always find what I'm looking for.”

John smiled sadly at him. “I hope you can find him. I really do. But I'm going to go home.”

Walter fell out of the chair trying to stand up, but quickly got to his feet.

“I'm going out,” he declared.

“Where?” Leo called after him, already retreating.

“Just to the yard, calm down Leo,” he called back.

John sighed.

Leo examined him critically. “I told you when we spoke on that phone that Walter never stops. He can't stop. Even if you wish him to stop, Walter will continue onwards in his search. You told me you were prepared for that.”

John looked up at Leo. “Yes. I know that. And I'm sure he will keep going, Sherlock was much the same, but I can't keep doing it. This past year has been hard, and for a long time I thought hope was a good thing to have... But maybe it's just holding me back.” He smiled slightly. “Denial is the first stage of grief after all.”

“You seemed very sure that Sherlock's not dead,” Leo observed.

John tilted his head and considered that. “Yeah, I know. And I'm still not convinced he is. But I can't keep on like this. So I'll keep on hoping, but I can't devote my life to it. I would say that he wouldn't want that, except I'm not entirely sure.” He grinned, and Leo smiled back.

“You seem to have made up your mind.”

“Yeah, and I've already booked a flight back,” he added, waving the slips of paper at him.

Leo nodded. “But Walter will insist on going to London. Probably in a week, maybe two, but he will insist on it. Would you rather wait, stay here until then, maybe help Walter out a bit more?”

John shrugged. “It's probably best if I go back to London now,” he said. “I'm not a fan of the heat.”

Leo nodded. “It's not for everyone. When is your flight?”

John glanced at the ticket. “2:30pm tomorrow.”

“I will drive you to the airport,” Leo told him, and held a hand up before he could protest.

 

* * *

 

The ride to the airport was quiet.

Leo seemed to sense that John wasn't in a talking mood, and only spoke to him after he left the car.

“Have a good flight. Walter and I will see you in about a week. We'll let you know the flight details when we get them figured out.”

John nodded. “Thank you, again. For everything, not just for the ride.”

Leo smiled. “You are very welcome Doctor Watson.”

He watched John go into the airport before returning to the bar.


	5. Chapter 5

One week on, and Leo and Walter were boarding their own plane bound for London.

Walter was far happier than Leo, who was mostly grumpy about the whole thing.

“Come on Leo,” he beamed. “It'll be fun. Funny hats and double decker buses and the queen...”

“I'm sure London will be just fine,” he replied.

“There you go,” he said happily. “That's the right attitude.”

 

Leo did fine for a while, but when Walter opened the shade to peer out the window, looking down at the water with fascination, Leo drew a line, and pulled the shade over the window.

“I do not appreciate water,” he told Walter.

“Aw,” Walter replied. “Well, you told me that was because you tend to sink. We are not in the water, we are flying over it.”

Leo frowned at him. “I do not appreciate flying _over_ water,” Leo grumbled.

“Aww, it'll be fine,” Walter replied, flipping through a magazine. “No one's shooting at us at least, so that's something to be happy about.”

Leo didn't have a response to that.

“When are we supposed to be landing?” he asked instead.

“Well, 17:30 there, which translates to 5:30 pm, or 12:30 pm on Florida time.”

Leo frowned at him. “And what are we doing once we get there?”

“John is picking us up at the airport and taking us back to his 'flat'.” Walter giggled at the expression. “Then I've got some places I want to go, and some people to talk to, first on the list being Sherlock's brother. John says he'll be hard to get ahold of, but I think I can manage.”

“That will probably have to wait until the morning,” Leo pointed out. “You may not be tired, but it'll be night time for them.”

“Time zones,” Walter sighed. “Messy.”

Leo only gripped the armrests tighter as the plane hit more turbulence.

Walter seemed to be enjoying it.

 

To Leo's chagrin, Walter seemed almost disappointed when they landed.

They spent nearly an hour finding their way out of the airport and into a taxi. Walter was gleeful about the whole driving on the other side of the road thing.

It took another half hour until they made it to Baker Street, where Leo knocked and pretended not to know the man who was peeking in windows.

 

A woman came to the door to greet him.

“Oh dear,” she said.

“Good evening madam,” Leo said, taking his hat off. “I am Leo Knox, and I have with me Walter Sherman. We are here to call on John Watson. Is he in?”

She blushed. “Of course dear,” she began, before footsteps sounded behind her.

“It's alright Mrs Hudson,” he said breathlessly, coming up behind her. “I forgot to tell you they were coming today.”

She bowed out, leaving John at the door.

“Hi,” John said.

Leo nodded to him.

John frowned. “Where's Walter?”

Leo gestured behind him.

The man was across the street, pacing up and down the sidewalk, but stopping every so often.

“Walter, come here!” Leo bellowed.

Walter looked up, and dashed across the street without looking.

John had a split second realization of _Oh god, he's going to get him by a car and die, and I'll never find Sherlock,_ before Walter arrived safely on the other side.

“Can you look before you cross the street, please,” John pleaded. “Both ways. The traffic is different here.”

Walter only shrugged. “Is this your place?” he asked, sticking his head in the door.

John nodded. “Yeah. My flat's upstairs. Mrs Hudson is the landlady, and her flat's on the main level.”

“Basement?” he asked.

“Unoccupied. Something about mould, Mrs Hudson can't seem to rent it out. And honestly, she has her-” John stopped. “Had her hands full.”

He turned his back. “Come on, I'll show you upstairs.”

 

Leaving Leo to carry his bag, Walter sprinted up after John. Leo only shook his head, but picked it up nonetheless.

John was already giving Walter the tour when he got there.

“Living room, kitchen, ... bedroom, bathroom down there, and my bedroom up another level.”

He pointed as he said this. “The bedroom upstairs is where I set up for you to sleep. There is the other bedroom but...” he trailed off, at a loss for how to explain it.

“It's Sherlock's bedroom,” Leo noted.

John nodded. “I haven't touched anything, and I just... can't bring myself to. So I'm sorry about the sleeping arrangements.”

“It's alright John,” Leo assured him. “Walter, what do you think about sleeping arrangements?”

“I can sleep anywhere, you know that Leo. In fact...” he climbed over the pile of bags Leo had dropped in the living room. “This spot looks nice.” He sprawled out on the floor in front of the fireplace. “Very nice,” he added. “Is that a human skull?”

“Yes,” John confirmed. “Apparently it's a friend of Sherlock's. Or something.”

Leo grinned broadly. “That's settled then. I'll take the bed, and you can have the couch. I'd take it, but I'm afraid I won't fit.”

“That is true,” John confirmed. “Although Walter, are you sure you're fine with the floor? I mean, I could probably get a cot from Mrs Hudson or something.”

“I'm fine,” Walter assured him. “Hey, is the bed upstairs a queen?”

“Yeah,” John said uncertainly.

“See, I can always bunk with Leo if I need to.”

Leo shook his head. “No Walter. You cannot.”

 

John clasped his hands together. “So, I know it's still early for you, but it's dinnertime here. I was thinking Chinese food. Is that fine with both of you?”

“Eh,” Walter muttered, still lying on the floor, arms clasped behind his head with his eyes closed.

Leo nodded.

“I know just the place.”

Leo could have sworn there was the slightest tinge of sadness in his voice.


	6. Chapter 6

The place John took them to wasn't far from the flat.

Walter had eaten half his meal, then gotten enamoured with something in a shop window across the street.

John pulled his focus back before he could leave. “So do you... always find what you're looking for?”

Walter shrugged. “Depends what you mean. I always find something. But it's often not what you're looking for.”

John rubbed his face with his hands.

“I know,” he admitted. “I kept telling myself that. I mean, there has to be a reason Sherlock doesn't want to be found, if he is alive. But I decided it didn't matter, because I need to know, whatever it is.”

That was enough for Walter, who nodded, and quickly left to examine whatever he'd seen in the shop window across the street.

Leo shouted at him to be careful crossing the street before he darted out the door.

 

“Sherlock was more than just a dear friend to you,” he noted.

John sat up defensively. “I don't know why everyone gets that idea. I'm not gay. I have no clue about Sherlock, but I'm not gay.”

Leo shook his head. “Not in that way. There's more than one type of love Doctor Watson. Indeed there is eros, the romantic love. But there is also storge, meaning affection, and phileo, meaning friendship. But I believe you and Sherlock have something more. Agape. Unconditional love despite circumstances.”

John stared out the window. “Have. You said have. Present tense.”

Leo nodded, eyeing Walter across the street.

“Even if Sherlock is gone, agape still remains. Love is not defined by the state of being. Love transcends death.”

John didn't say anything, but he nodded slightly, something that most people would have missed.

Leo smiled broadly.

 

They left shortly after to prevent Walter from buying dozens of lucky cats, none of which he had the room or money for.

 

* * *

 

Walter was up the next morning, bright and early, despite the time difference.

He managed to wake John up, who had ended up sleeping on the couch, whilst rummaging around in the kitchen.

 

He managed to catch the mug before it shattered, thankfully, but he made enough noise that John was alert, not used to other people being in the flat.

 _Since._..

 

“Walter?” he asked, stumbling into the kitchen.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “It is me.”

John only blinked at him, his eyes having trouble adjusting to the light in the kitchen. “What're you doing?”

“Making tea,” Walter said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

John almost winced at the utter invasion of his British-ness. He managed to contain it though, and instead gently removed the kettle from Walter's reach and directed him towards a stool.

“I'll do that.”

“I can help,” Walter insisted.

“Okay, how about you put bread in the toaster then. Do you like toast?”

Walter nodded, and set to the task John had given him.

John only hoped it wouldn't end like the one time he'd asked Sherlock to help him, which had resulted in smoke damage to the kitchen, and two charred pieces of something vaguely resembling bread.

 

Thankfully, Walter was more adept in the cooking department, and after a few minutes, they sat down at the kitchen island with their respective cuppas and toast.

 

“So,” Walter said cheerfully for someone who still should have been sleeping, seeing how it was 3:30 in the morning back in Florida. “What's the plan for today?”

“Well, the main people you'd want to talk to are Greg Lestrade, the Detective Inspector, Molly Hooper, the coroner who's also a friend of Sherlock... well I say friend but... and Mycroft Holmes, who's Sherlock big brother, and probably about half of the government.”

“Mycroft?” Walter asked, looking up at John skeptically. “Their parents must have been even worse than mine at naming their kids. At least I got off lightly compared to Langston. But Sherlock and Mycroft.” He shook his head. “They never had a chance.”

“I never met their parents,” John said. “I'm still not even sure if they're alive. Sherlock had a way of being able to avoid things he didn't want to talk about.”

“Right. Well, Mycroft is first on the list. And then I want to talk to the police guy, and then the body person.”

“Molly,” John supplied. “Molly was the one at the morgue. And Lestrade, he was the DI at the time. He's sort of on... leave now, pending...”

“To see if Sherlock screwed up?” Walter offered helpfully.

John lifted one side of his mouth in an attempt to smile. “Yeah, something like that.”

 

Leo emerged into the kitchen.

“Hi Leo!” Walter chirped. John waved, and the large man waved back.

“We're talking about our plans for the day,” he told his friend.

Leo nodded and disappeared into the bathroom. He joined them at the island when he emerged, a cup of tea waiting for him, courtesy of John.

 

John spoke to both of them. “I can call Lestrade, see if he can come over tonight. It'll take a bunch more work to get a meeting with Mycroft, since normally he sort of just... makes them happen. I'll work it out though. And you may want to go see Molly in the morgue, because the files are probably there, and she really isn't allowed to take them out.”

“Excellent,” Walter declared. “Seeing a British morgue was on my bucket list.” He grinned at Leo. “I can cross it off.”

Leo only shook his head.

John attempted a smile. “We can go there in a bit, I'll just text her and make sure she's working today.”

Walter nodded, offering a half eaten piece of toast to Leo. “Want some?” he asked, crumbs falling out of his mouth.

“I think I'll make my own,” he replied.

Walter shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

 

An hour later, after they'd all been 'fed up' and made to look presentable (in Walter's case, not anyone else's, since the other grown men knew how to dress themselves properly) they set off for the morgue, where Molly was indeed working.

 

Walter kept his nose pressed to the window of the taxi, watching the streets of London go by.

 


	7. Chapter 7

“Molly!” Walter exclaimed.

The woman in question jumped slightly, and the scalpel in her hand dropped to the table.

“What!” she huffed, turning to look at them angrily. She blushed when she saw them. “Oh, I'm sorry. I'm just used to... well...” she stammered. “No one really interrupts me now because...” She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I'll just stop now.”

“Molly, this is Walter and his friend Leo,” John said, pointing to each of them in turn. Leo tipped his hat at the lady while Walter simply wiggled his fingers in her direction as a wave.

She blushed again.

“They're staying with me for a bit. Walter works with the FBI at home in Florida sometimes, and he'd always wanted to see a London morgue. Do you mind showing him around? I've got to run upstairs and talk to Mike, he's been phoning me nonstop about some chemistry equipment that...” he swallowed. “That's missing.”

Molly's face whitened. “Of course,” she whispered.

Walter wondered if there was some sort of code between them that he was missing out on. Probably.

John smiled at her. “Thanks. It shouldn't take me more than half an hour, if that. And Leo should keep Walter out of trouble.”

He left, and Molly immediately blushed again.

Walter wondered if that was normal for her. She did seem like the type of person to blush all the time.

“Molly,” he said again, more slowly this time.

He sat down on a stool next to the counter as she covered up the body she was working on and stripped her gloves off.

He spun around twice before he caught a glimpse of Leo shaking his head.

“This is a nice morgue,” Walter said after a moment of inspection. “Very nice. Nicer than I expected. Isn't it Leo?”

“I had no expectations for what a morgue would look like, so I cannot say.”

Walter looked at Molly. “It's very nice.”

One never really knows how to reply to that.

“So,” he said conversationally. “See a lot of bodies here then.”

She nodded.

“Anything really cool?” he asked hopefully. “The guys I worked with back home, they saw all sorts of really strange things.”

Molly shook her head. “Not really. Mostly heart attacks, natural causes. Sometimes I'll get a murder victim. Those were my favourite.” She blushed again. “I mean, it was awful they were killed, but it always made the investigation more interesting...” she trailed off.

“Fighting crimes and everything?” Walter grinned.

Molly nodded and attempted a smile.

“Hey wasn't it that...” Walter trailed off, snapping his fingers in Leo's direction. “The detective guy. Whats-his-name. Didn't he used to work here?”

“Sherlock Holmes?” Molly asked quietly. She needn't have asked. There were no other world renowned detectives.

Walter grinned. “Yeah, him. He died last year though. Tragic,” he noted, watching Molly's face for a reaction.

Her expression wavered, but didn't break.

“Did you know him?” he asked.

“Sherlock?” Molly squeaked.

Walter pointed at her. “That's the one.”

She blushed again.

“Yeah. He used to come in and perform experiments on the corpses. Sometimes I'd hook him up with spare body parts. He used them for experiments too,” she explained, blushing again.

“Were you his girlfriend?”

Molly blushed so much that Walter feared she'd pass out from all that blood rushing to her head.

“No,” she said quickly. “Sherlock didn't have girlfriends. I'm not sure he'd know what to do with them if he ever did.”

Walter raised an eyebrow. “Gay?”

She shrugged. “That was up for debate. At Scotland Yard, they had a pool going, still do probably,” she muttered under her breath, “if Sherlock was or not. More specifically, it related to him and John.” She paled. “Don't tell him I said that though, even though he probably knows.”

“Course not,” Walter agreed cheerfully. “So what did you think? I don't think you're the betting type, but you've got to have an opinion.”

Molly took a deep breath before turning to face Walter, and when she did speak, it all sort of fell out, the words tripping over themselves to be said before they were lost forever.

“I don't think Sherlock Holmes liked anyone, not like that anyway. He claimed to be a sociopath, but he was lying, I could tell. He loved John, but not in the way everyone thought. And he was not a fake. That I can tell you for sure. He was brilliant, arrogant, annoyed, and hopeless when it came to social interaction, but none of that was faked. It was all real.”

She blushed when she noticed both of them gaping at her.

“Sorry,” she squeaked. “Was that not what you wanted?”

“No...” Walter said slowly. “That was great. You liked him then, but he never knew. Oblivious?”

She nodded. “That's how he sort of was.”

Walter nodded. “He died here, didn't he,” he asked softly. _Gently,_ Leo would have said, if anyone had asked him.

They all knew it wasn't a question.

Molly nodded, her eyes dampening.

“It was awful,” she whispered.

Leo walked over to her and put an arm over her shoulder.

“It's alright to be sad,” he told her, giving her a gentle squeeze. “Such a traumatic event must have been hard to deal with.”

Molly nodded.

“Were you the one here that day?” Walter asked.

Leo glared at him, but Molly didn't seem to notice.

She nodded. “And that made it worse, because I'd seen him earlier in the day, and he didn't seem like...” she sniffed. “He didn't seem like he would do something like that.”

“Kill himself?” Walter offered helpfully.

Leo glared at him.

Molly teared up, but nodded.

“I had to see him all, broken and bloody,” she sobbed. “You should _never_ have to see someone you care about like that.” She shook her head. “It was worse for John though,” she whispered. “He watched Sherlock...” she broke off and didn't seem able to continue, crying into her arm.

Leo rubbed her shoulder in a consoling manner, and Walter seemed to understand he shouldn't ask any more questions.

He got up from the stool and wandered around the room. “Do you have tissues or something?” he asked.

Molly looked over at him and nodded. “In the back room,” she mumbled, pointing. “But I don't really need...”

Walter had already gone.

“There is nothing to be ashamed for in crying,” Leo told her gently. “To weep is to make less the depth of grief.”

Molly smiled at Leo. “Thank you,” she whispered.

 

Walter emerged moments later with the box of tissues.

Leo frowned. It had taken a rather long time for him to find them.

“Took you long enough Walter,” Leo said as Molly took two, for her now dry eyes, more out of politeness than an actual need. _British._

“I couldn't find them,” Walter said bluntly. “But you know me Leo, once I start looking for something, I find it or I die first.”

He grinned at Molly, who looked horrified.

“Good thing I found them, huh?” he asked, elbowing her. “Although, it makes it harder when I look for things that aren't lost, or that don't want to be found.” He paused thoughtfully. “Once I got kidnapped over some alien thing that wasn't, and this hider woman told me that some things aren't meant to even be looked for.”

He grinned at Molly, who was looking no less horrified than she had moments before.

“Good thing I'm not looking for anything like that, right?”

She nodded weakly.

 

Thankfully, John either chose to arrive back at that moment, or the fates were smiling upon them.

“Thanks Molly,” he said with relief. “I've got it all sorted out with Mike now.”

Either he didn't notice her red eyes, or chose to ignore them.

“Come on,” he said to his friends. “You've got one thing crossed off your bucket list, Walter. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Well,” Molly heard Walter say as he left. “There is one thing...”

 

As soon as they were out of earshot, she sat down on the stool, rested her head against the cool counter, and sobbed.


	8. Chapter 8

Lestrade was next on the list.

“Was Molly helpful?” John asked in the cab, mildly hopeful.

Walter shrugged. “I'm not sure yet. Although she was definitely in love with Sherlock.”

John rolled his eyes. “Anyone who looked could see that. She wasn't the only one.”

“He was popular with the ladies?” Leo asked.

John snorted. “Yeah, until he opened his mouth. Looks can only do so much before his voice shattered the illusion of a perfect man.”

Walter nodded solemnly. “Isabel would tell me the same thing some times.”

Leo snorted.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade had agreed to meet them at the flat just after lunch.

John had conveniently forgotten to tell him about his house guests.

“Oh,” Lestrade said, stopping suddenly in the doorway. “Hello.”

Leo nodded his head, and Walter waved.

“Who are they?” he asked John.

“They're with me,” John told him, echoing what Sherlock had said at that first crime scene.

“Yeah, but who are they?”

“Walter Sherman and Leo Knox,” he said, gesturing to each in turn. There was only so far he could go. “Go sit with them. Talk. I'm pretty sure they don't bite.” He frowned. “Leo doesn't anyway.”

Lestrade wisely decided to sit in an armchair rather than next to Walter on the couch.

“Hello,” he said again.

“Hello,” Leo replied.

“Oh, are you American?” Lestrade asked.

Walter nodded. “No wonder you're a detective.”

Lestrade frowned slightly.

 

John emerged from the kitchen with a tea tray and a plate of biscuits.

“Walter is... Well, I'm not really sure what he is. A specialist, definitely. What would you say Leo?”

Before Leo could answer, Walter spoke up. “I'm in discombobulated article reacquisition.”

“And what the bloody hell is that,” Lestrade muttered, taking a swig of his tea, probably wishing there was something stronger in it.

“Walter finds things,” Leo supplied.

“Sure, dumb it down for him,” Walter huffed.

Lestrade stared at him. “You find things. Like... lost pets? Wedding rings down the backs of couches?”

Walter rolled his eyes. “See Leo, this is what happens when you dumb it down. Yes, I can find those things, but usually I find better things. Important things. One time I found a bullet that proved a man on death row was innocent. It was in another man's butt. Another time I found a missing girl in a hurricane. See? Not just kittens and jewellery.”

Lestrade looked slightly impressed, but also dubious. “What are you doing in London then? With John?”

“We went to see the morgue,” Walter said, at the same time that Leo said “Sightseeing,” and the same time that John said “They're from Florida. Mrs Hudson and all that.”

Lestrade looked between the three of them.

“You're all lying to me. Is this about Sherlock or Moriarty? Because John, I've told you I can't help-”

“I'm not asking you to help Greg,” John intervened. “I know you can't. But there's nothing stopping you from having a chat with some friends, right?”

He hesitated before sitting in the last available seat, Sherlock's chair.

Lestrade shrugged. “Suppose not.”

Walter looked thrilled. “Great. So, John tells me that you were the one to arrest Sherlock for the kidnappings.”

Lestrade sighed. “I had to. Anderson and Donovan went over my head. I couldn't stop it from happening. But then those two idiots went and became fugitives.”

Walter smirked. “Yup. But anyway. When did you first meet Sherlock? How well did you know him? What about this Moriarty man? And have you looked into the newspaper articles and the woman who wrote them? A cat or something.”

“Kitty,” Leo supplied.

“Yeah,” Walter agreed. “Her.”

Lestrade looked overwhelmed. “I knew Sherlock quite well, although probably not as well as I thought I did. I don't think anyone knew Sherlock, not truly. Maybe not even you John,” he added with a glance to him.

John couldn't look at him.

“I knew him for... oh it must have been going on seven years.” He shook his head. “He was so young when I met him, and so bloody stupid. He was into drugs then.”

“What about recently?” Walter asked. “Before, was he doing drugs?”

John shook his head. “His brother had him tested regularly, and I couldn't see any signs that he was.”

“Right. Go on,” Walter said, waving a hand at Lestrade.

 

Walter quizzed him for another hour on the nature of their relationship and how Sherlock could have been lying the entire time.

 

“He wasn't a fake,” Lestrade said firmly. “No way. He may have lied at times, but no one can lie for that long. I can't talk about the newspapers or about Richard Brook or James Moriarty, whoever he is, because it's an open investigation.” He turned to John. “You know that.”

Reaching the end of Walter's interrogation, John had deflated, apparently hearing nothing new, nothing that he thought would be of any use to Walter.

“Course,” he sighed.

 

“Do you blame yourself for Sherlock's death?” Walter asked.

Lestrade stared at him.

“Are you accusing me?”

Walter shrugged. “All I'm saying is that you let him be arrested, helped arrest him even, on the grounds that he had lied about everything, then the next day he jumps off a rood after telling John he's a fake. Coincidence?” He tilted his hand back and forth. “Meh.”

Lestrade's face darkened.

“No, I don't blame myself,” he growled.

“Does John blame you?” Walter asked.

Both men looked shocked at the question.

“I hope not,” Lestrade muttered, at the same time that John shook his head, not quite able to speak.

Lestrade got out of his chair and spoke in hushed tones to John. “I'm sorry, I really am. I was only doing my job. But I know that me being sorry and apologizing isn't going to change things. It won't bring Sherlock back. But it wouldn't have stopped it either.” He stepped away to leave, but Walter spoke again.

“John told me that you called Sherlock a great man,” Walter noted. “Do you still believe that?”

Lestrade considered it. “Sherlock Holmes was a good man,” he said finally, and with that he left.

Leo glanced back at John, whose face was a sad mix of pride and loss.

 

He excused himself until dinner time.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Dinner was Italian, and this owner seemed just as fond of John.

After dinner, Walter and Leo wanted to see some of London, so John took them for a walk back to Baker Street instead of taking a cab.

 

Leo had gotten distracted with something in a store window, and Walter had gotten impatient while he attempted to read some sort of fine print, so he continued wandering down the street.

 

“Major Walter Sherman.”

The voice came from a car that had pulled up alongside him.

“Get in.”

 

Walter peered behind him. Leo was still occupied with the items in the shop window, and John was with him, possibly translating English English to American English for Leo. They would wonder where he'd gone, likely be angry with him.

Walter shrugged. _Imma risk it._

He slipped into the backseat just as Leo and John turned to look for him.

He waved through the rear window, although he wasn't sure if they could see him through the tinted glass.

 

He focused his attention on the man sitting across from him. It was more a limo than a car, fancy black leather seats, and a partition between the passengers and whoever was driving.

“Walter,” the man said, smiling. “May I call you Walter?”

He shrugged. “Depends. What do I get to call you?”

The man's smile tightened.

“I'm an interested party. I heard that you are looking into the death of Sherlock Holmes.”

Walter nodded. “Yup. Although I fail to see how you're interested. You know, cause he's dead and all,” he pointed out.

The man's smile faded.

“And 'interested party' is not a name, last I checked. Although, I've been told I'm crazy, so what do I know?” he said casually, shrugging again, staring at the man.

The man only stared back. “Mycroft. You may call me Mycroft.”

“Oh man, not Sherlock's brother- I mean it's not like there's a lot of you, but really- _Sherlock's_ _brother_ _Mycroft_? Mycroft Holmes?” he grinned.

Mycroft only grimaced. “Yes, that Mycroft.”

 

Walter leaned his head back into the leather seat and shook his head. “Man,” he giggled. “John said it would be hard for me to meet with you, and here you just show up and insist I get in your car.” He sat up. “Props for that, by the way. It was pretty cool. Creepy, but cool.”

Mycroft didn't smile.

“Well, there are some urgent matters we need to discuss.”

Walter tilted his head. “Really?”

Mycroft leaned forward.

“You must stop prying,” he told Walter. His tone wasn't overly threatening, but Walter had been threatened enough times to know that something was veiled within it.

“With what?” Walter asked innocently.

Mycroft leaned back and smirked. “Don't play stupid with me Walter. It only reflects badly on you. I'm quite aware that you're investigating Sherlock's death, and in quite detail.”

He picked up his umbrella that was resting on the seat beside him, and examined the tip disinterestedly. “If you continue, I will be forced to take action that you will not enjoy.”

“Don't pretend to know me,” Walter warned. “You don't know anything about me.”

Mycroft smirked. “Really?” He pulled out a file from his briefcase. “This folder is filled with information about you. All those tours you went on, hospital records, psychiatric evaluations, detailed reports of things you've found, clients you've had, people who owe you favours.” He leaned forward. “I know everything about you Walter.”

“Then you'll know I don't threaten,” he said flatly.

Mycroft sighed. “I was hoping it wouldn't come to this.”

He knocked on the window to the driver, who took a sharp left turn.

Walter grinned. It was just like in old spy movies. Apparently things did happen that way in Britain.

 

Walter was deposited at the door of an abandoned building. He beamed. Things were just getting better and better.

“Third floor,” Mycroft told him before the window rolled back up and the car glided away.


	10. Chapter 10

Walter made his way up the stairs.

He paused in the doorway to the stairwell, peering across the room at the figure silhouetted in the window.

 

Walter approached carefully.

“You're him,” he said.

The man who had to be Sherlock sighed. “Yes.”

“I found you,” Walter said, matter of fact.

“Indeed,” Sherlock sighed again. “I'd hoped you wouldn't despite what your reputation led me to believe.”

“Huh,” Walter commented, grinning. “I have a reputation.” He nodded. “Nice!”

Sherlock smiled thinly. “Perhaps not as you think.”

 

His smile vanished. “You can't tell John.” The way he said it, he meant it as a threat, but Walter only heard a plea.

Walter frowned. “Why not?” he countered. “John hired me to find you. I've found you. That's what I do.”

“If you were to tell him, it would risk his life. Something I've worked very hard to avoid for the past many months.”

“Is that what you're doing?” Walter asked. “Protecting him?”

Sherlock hesitated before nodding. “There were gunmen... If I hadn't jumped, then John would have died, along with two others that I care about.”

“And now?”

Sherlock's face fell. “They're still not safe. That's what I'm doing. Taking out his men, one by one. Until they're all either dead, or behind bars, no one I care about will be safe.”

“And how's that going for you?” Walter smirked.

Sherlock's eyes blazed. “As well as could be considered. But I'm not done yet. Which is why you can't tell him. If anything, the worst is yet to come.”

Walter frowned. Sure, he understood what Sherlock was saying, and why, but that wasn't how he operated. “I'm not sure you understand how I work. People hire me to find things. I find them. It's that simple. The last time I didn't find something, it was the bomb that blew me up. You may solve things, Sherlock Holmes, but I find them.” He took a breath. “I found you.” Sherlock was staring him down, but Walter continued. “I will tell John. And he will be so, _so,_ relieved. He cares for you, possibly more than you know, and it's not fair for him to be in the dark about this. He had to be told.”

Sherlock shook his head sadly. “You can't. Mycroft won't let you.”

“What?” he asked, rage only slightly veiled.

Sherlock's face darkened. “Mycroft has ways of making things happen. He's slightly limited when it comes to other countries, but he has enough ties in America that he still could. If it came down to it, he'd make you disappear.”

“People would look for me,” Walter told him. “They have before.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You don't understand what he's capable of. It's not just you that would go missing.”

Walter froze. _Leo. Isabel. Willa. Langston. It would happen just like it had been threatened to happen before._

Sherlock continued, ignorant of Walter's internal plight.“I don't want him to do that. I hate when he interferes.” He scowled, and Walter saw some of the resentment his own brother had. ( _Before, anyway,_ he reminded himself. Dad didn't like him as much now that he was brain-damaged. Langston had become the favourite son.)

“Then don't let him,” Walter said shortly. He turned to leave. He wasn't one to threaten easily.

“Walter,” Sherlock said, gripping his arm.

He turned back.

“Is there someone in your life, anyone, that you would do anything to protect?” Sherlock looked away as he asked, like he hated to admit that he did. Like caring was a weakness.

Walter softened. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Then you understand what I'm doing here.”

He nodded. He understood what Sherlock was asking him to do.

“I won't tell John,” he said slowly.

Sherlock's whole body sagged in relief.

“Thank you.”

It was barely a whisper, but he heard it nonetheless.

“Mycroft will arrange for you to go home. The less time you spend with John the better. I don't want him to... I don't want him to get his hopes up.”

“He's going to hate you,” Walter told him.

Sherlock nodded. “I've already accepted that. I'd rather have him alive and hating me than dead.”

Walter tilted his head. “Yeah, I can understand that,” he nodded.

Sherlock took a step back. He turned away from Walter and began to leave.

“What am I suppose to tell him?” Walter asked. Sherlock stopped. “You know my reputation, he knows it. I don't stop until I find something. I'll die first.”

“I don't know,” he said quietly. “That's up to you.”

And without another word, Sherlock Holmes disappeared into the night.

Walter had found him, and lost him, all in the span of less than an hour.

 

He walked down the stairs carefully. The car was waiting for him at the bottom.


	11. Chapter 11

John bolted upright as soon as he heard the footsteps on the stairs.

Leo was right behind him as soon as he realized what they meant.

“Where have you been?” he demanded. “You weren't supposed to go anywhere without me. Do you remember what happened last time you did things without me? You got shot. Where did you go?”

Walter shrugged. “Not really sure.”

Leo only glared at him furiously. John didn't know what to say.

“And?” Leo prompted.

“We're going home,” Walter told him.

“What?” John blurted. “What happened to him finding something or dying? What about that?”

Leo looked concerned as well.

“Some things can't be found,” Walter said to Leo quietly.

John looked between the two of them. “But...” he protested.

Walter looked at him sadly. “Some thing just...” he sighed. “I can't find Sherlock for you John. I wish I could, but I can't.” He shrugged. “Leo absolutely draws the line at exhumation.”

Leo nodded solemnly.

 

“I booked our flights for tomorrow morning,” Walter told Leo, throwing the printed receipts at him.

Leo caught them.

“Walter, you didn't have to book business class,” he informed him.

“Is that what that is?” he asked, peering at them. “I didn't notice.”

_At least Mycroft is being nice about the whole thing. Business class tickets and all._

Leo sighed. “You're the one who paid for them, so I cannot complain.”

John just stood there looking at them, and couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness. They reminded him of himself and Sherlock. He _missed_ the man.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “Thank you for coming. I just had to be sure.” He stepped towards the door. “I'm going out for a bit. Call me if you need anything.”

And with that, he slipped out and down the stairs.

Through the window, Walter watched him disappear into the night.

 

“What happened Walter? What _did_ you find?”

Walter didn't respond to Leo. He couldn't.

 

* * *

 

They returned home the next day, Leo still unsure what had occurred in those hours that Walter has been missing. And Walter couldn't tell him, because Leo would have told John, and then all that Sherlock had worked for would have been ruined.

Perhaps the hider lady had been right. Some things were just not meant to be found.

_But he'd still done it anyway._


	12. Chapter 12

Twenty four days after their flight touched down in Florida, another flight touched down in London, containing one dead consulting detective.

Except, he was a little bit not dead.

 

Broken, bruised, beaten, and emotionally scarred, but not dead.

 

His first stop was to visit John, who he expected would be angry, furious probably, but glad to see him.

His instincts may have been slightly off.

 

John glared at him. “What. The. Fuck.” he enunciated clearly, rage evident in his eyes.

Sherlock attempted a smile. “Not dead?” he said weakly.

John stared at him for a second, then punched him in the jaw.

Sherlock staggered backwards. He'd been expecting that, but it didn't mean he was prepared for it.

He clasped a hand to the soon to be bruise. “John, I owe you a thousand apologies-” he began, but John wasn't finished.

“Apologies?” he bellowed. _“Apologies?_ Sherlock, you owe me a hell of a lot more than just _apologies._ You faked your death! We will be discussing how you did that, by the way, so don't think you can just slip out of explaining that one. BUT YOU DIED, IN FRONT OF ME. How can you even think that was okay?”

“I didn't think it was okay John, I thought it was necessary,” Sherlock snapped. “Moriarty-”

“Is dead,” John interrupted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Moriarty was but one piece of the puzzle. Even with him dead, you would have died if I hadn't. Faked it, I mean.”

John glared at him.

“No,” he said. “I'm not talking to you right now. I may not be able to keep myself from punching you.”

“It wasn't just you, you know,” he hollered at John, who had started to walk into the kitchen. He stopped, but didn't turn around. “Lestrade and Mrs Hudson would have died too. So you can't give me some crap about how you're less important than me or something, because it wasn't just about you.”

John turned to look at him.

“Why,” he said finally, “Did you wait so long to contact me. Couldn't have dropped me a letter or something, phoned me, sent a bloody _text_ ,” he snapped.

“I couldn't risk it,” he said simply. “If the gunmen had found out I was still alive, they would have killed you.”

John raised an eyebrow. “And now?”

Sherlock grinned slyly. “They are of no consequence.”

“Right,” John muttered, returning to his chair to collapse into it. “So-”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock confirmed.

John nodded. “Thought so.” He paused for a second, and frowned. “Did you tell Mycroft before you told me?” he demanded.

Sherlock sniffed indignantly. “Of course not. He's the British government. He found out on his own.”

John rolled his eyes. “Of course,” he muttered.

Sherlock rubbed his sore jaw absentmindedly.

John sighed, but got up and went to the kitchen. Sherlock heard him digging around, and a moment later he returned with a bag of peas.

Sherlock looked at them suspiciously when John held them out to him.

“What am I supposed to do with those?”

John rolled his eyes. “How did you manage to survive- It's an ice pack. Put it on your face,” he ordered.

Sherlock grabbed it. “I hate peas,” he muttered, pressing the bag to his face.

“I'm not making you eat them,” John retorted. “Hang on...” he said slowly. “When did Mycroft find out?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Four months, maybe. The evidence was there, if you looked closely enough. Even I couldn't do anything about that.”

John tensed up. Sherlock wasn't sure what it was that he'd said.

“The evidence was there?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

John stood up and grabbed his laptop.

“John...” Sherlock trailed off. John was typing as furiously as he could, which was not much at all. “What are you doing?”

“Booking a plane ticket to America,” he said through gritted teeth. “There's someone there who also needs to be punched.”

Sherlock examined him for a moment.

“Oh... I see. Well, there's no need. There's a pilot who owes me a favour. Got him out of a tight spot when something went missing on one of his flights. Turned out it had never been on the plane.”

John glared at Sherlock.

“Sure, yeah,” he muttered, pushing his laptop away. “This is all your fault, so you might as well provide the transport.”

Sherlock snapped his phone to his ear.

“Yes, hello Martin. I need to book a flight to Florida...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Walter had figured out 12/13 of the scenarios, so GOOD FOR HIM.


End file.
